The Unrestrained Pen

A pillar of mist; like Lot's wife.
Salt.
A regiment of soldiers,
marching assuredly, endlessly
into nothing they've been expecting.

I could feel.
I was beautiful.
It was a turtle, or maybe a tortoise--
(I've never been one for specifics)
creeping along like a log on the Ness.

The surface is a mess of strokes,
so many colors smeared in short, distinct lines.
Somehow it becomes what it is supposed to become
even with colors that don't belong.
Glaze your eyes over, and it looks like you thought it would.

So many together.
A tide pool of camaraderie.
Slip aimlessly, anonymously
through the crowds.
You aren't beautiful
but at least you belong.

Let your eyes seer past the surface.
It becomes a mass of colors,
but remind yourself that it will cease
when winter comes and the world dies.
My mind dies.

The snow never brings purity.
White is an artful deceiver.
Forget consideration--long live evanescence.
You will never again see spring.

The life drains,
The salt exhales,
The souls dissipate.
November has come again.

The water drains.
The fish all die.
How truly helpless
Are we.

And isn't it sad
how the unrestrained pen
breathes more than I?